


Good Time Boys of Ko Ko Beach

by EllesAlwaysWriting



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 80s AU, Alternate Universe - Ko Ko Bop (Music Video), Blackmail, Drug Dealing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gambling, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Money laundering, Multi, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, beautiful dirty rich.mp3, if its illegal they're doing it, listen...everything illegal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllesAlwaysWriting/pseuds/EllesAlwaysWriting
Summary: Things that feel good usually aren’t good for you, and The Good Time Boys always have pockets full of good things…(AKA the 80s Greaser Gang AU we can all blame Baekhyun's mullet for)





	1. Tracklist

Having enjoyed the overall aesthetics of the Ko Ko Bop era entirely too much, I decided to dust off my keyboard and begin this oneshot series based entirely around my own fictional rendering of Ko Ko Beach and some of my favorite songs from the 1980s (special thanks to Byun Baekhyun’s mullet, God bless). The only way I can think to summarize this series is basically “a sex drugs and rock & roll 80s au,” The boys runs Ko Ko Beach and make a lot of dangerous, fun, illegal life choices. Simply put: they’re here for a good time, not a long time. The series will have nine parts, each dedicated to following any given Good Time Boy as he goes about his routine. Their corresponding song on the track list will also serve as his chapter's title. This series' overall theme and title comes from one of my favorite songs by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which is the first "track" on the "album." As the story progresses I will add each title and a link to the song to this page (and I may or may not already have an Apple Music playlist, lol). I also hope you enjoy the graphics as they may be the best thing I've done in Photoshop in a LONG time. ;)

  1. [Good Time Boys by Red Hot Chili Peppers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDF-bfHVsa8)
  2. [The Glamorous Life by Sheila E.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=laUKFzTQQ38)
  3. [Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LxPoJ4QoSk)
  4. ???
  5. ???
  6. ???
  7. ???
  8. ???
  9. ???
  10. ???




	2. The Glamourous Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heartbreaker: Kim Jongin makes the tacky, technicolor backdrop that is Ko Ko Beach a little more digestible.

 

It’s a well-known fact that those who happen to be greeted by Kim Jongin at the porte-cortege of the Verona Grand Plaza Hotel should count themselves among the lucky.

Ever elusive, he truly isn’t much of a people person, but that doesn’t negate his charming magnetism. Many find themselves slightly shocked by the casual attire of the hotel staff as he offers a gentle hand to assist them from their cars – loose-hanging blouse blossoming open as he bends to bow or kiss hands, unbuttoned and blowing softly in the wind. If his ripped, dirtied jeans didn’t send the signal of their mistake of assuming him a valet, the actual bellman marching up to shoo him away always laments it to them. The employee will apologize profusely for the inconvenience, apparel resembling an old-time theatre usher in their pastel pink suit and matching pillbox hat, but the guests won’t pay them much mind. Their eyes will have found more interest in following the friendly stranger who welcomed them warmly as he struts back over to his blonde companion perched against the valet station. Watching the two be a little less than elegantly escorted away from the front door by another bellman seemed to be a lot more entertaining than surveying the mechanical mannerisms of the hotel staff.

Jongin will often catch their unhidden grimaces as they watch him stride gracefully over smooth asphalt undoubtedly heated by the summer sun completely bare foot. _Doesn’t that hurt?_ some ask, _isn’t a tab bit too hot for that?_ Others will sneer judgmentally, _that can’t be sanitary, son_. A few will comment the same to his friend, whose never without his heavy leather jacket hanging on his shoulders. On blistering days such as this he’ll proudly sport it shirtless and paired with tattered jean shorts as worn as Jongin’s pants, decorated with various patches and distress. Even when walking away at the sound of empty threats of security and apologies over their presence, the pair anticipate curious gazes, sense them on their backs and never forget to turn in unison to peak over their shoulders. Then comes the mirrored smirks in an almost rehearsed fashion, playful, enticing. Inviting. The blonde will sometimes turn completely, facing persistent eyes head on with an air of cockiness that a blurry peripheral view doesn’t do justice. And Jongin will continue walking up the perfectly smoothed road of the roundabout, let him lag and tease those watching with a wink as he reaches for the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Jongin will call out to him playfully as he threatens to light it directly in front of the large NO SMOKING illustration, only mildly egging him on. He’ll take note of any particularly interested witnesses and memorize their faces as he strikes his friend’s shoulder and urges their exit.

“You here on vacation, ma’am?” one of the bellmen will loudly question in a sing-song tone, trying desperately to soothe any worries of the guests and stepping into their view.

“Don’t mind the local riffraff,” Jongin will hear another say, purposefully projecting in their direction. He chuckles. It’s extremely easy to wind those monkey suits up and it never fails to pay off in a cheap laugh (and a couple tips from more gullible guests when they don’t get caught). The malice at which they speak to him is comical, as if they’re somehow above him by committing to servitude. In their blinded eyes, he’s nothing but a tramp; a disposable scoundrel only comforted by the company of other disposal scoundrels. Jongin shudders to think of what the fair isle of Ko Ko Beach would be without he and his pack of tramps…

 

And so, we come across our setting in fair Verona Cove, affectionately named in honor of the island’s former resemblance to romantic Verona, Italy. Located just far enough off the mainland shore to be dubbed “exotic” by boring businessmen on million-dollar cruise ships, the island remains frozen in the fluorescent flagrance of 1980s America. Maybe the economic boom was to blame for the aesthetically pleasing infrastructure, the successful equity of the late 60s and early 70s brought a new life to the island and thrusted it into the late 20th century. And that’s exactly where it has stayed since – untouched, timeless. It’s the promise of a community locked in a decade held fond that keeps the shoreline abuzz. Still, there are those that think Verona Cove, now a fantastical tourist trap, could bring in far more money if more of its residents saw things in favor of the corporations looking to “improve” its quality. Ask the natives and they’ll sing a different tune. In the span of a short decade, the island has seen events somewhat swing in favor of corporate gain. Neighborhoods tumbled, areas invaded, businesses sold; parts of the island gentrified beyond all recognition. All that keeps Verona Cove’s original reputation as “The City that Never Ages” alive are the inhabitants and scenery of the busy South Shore, home to the Verona Grand Plaza Hotel, the neighboring Cove Beach, the Cove Caverns, Boardwalk Cove, and many more businesses of similar names. It is here that we meet our rag time band of anti-heroes. The “local riffraff” to rule the local riffraff. A flock of talented free spirits interlocked in the civil opposition of the shifting times, physical representation of the majorities’ resistance. But sadly, the majority are not the ones in charge anymore.

They stand by as long-standing signs and business monikers fall in favor of “proper spelling,” “correction of confusing repetition,” and “for the ease & benefit of visitors.” The Ko Ko Cabana became simply The Cove, Ko Ko Beach now Cove Beach. A sure-fire way to out yourself as a foreigner is to refer to any of these places by their new identities. _“Nobody calls it that,”_ the locals say while chuckling. If you were lucky they’d correct you, and point you in the direction of Ko Ko Burgers or the Ko Ko Caverns, but most will just continue about their business. Wandering aimlessly around Verona Cove will quickly have you in contact with many residents who don’t have the time or patience to entertain tourists.

 

Kim Jongin was not one of those residents. He always had all the time in the world. In fact, time was his business. Those counted among the lucky may once again find themselves face-to-face with him a lot sooner than they think, and by no accident. He slinks right into the Verona Grand Plaza nearly every night, through employee entrances and exits only guarded by easily scalable walls (a feat made less difficult when wearing shoes, unfortunately for him). He does his best to blend in, look inconspicuous in a way that still attracts attention, but it’s really not necessary. Anybody whose anybody knows exactly who he is and exactly why he’s there. As long as his tab is paid at the bar and he’s minding his business, the employees know to leave him to his work.

And he works every throng of tourists like the professional he is; appearance and swagger slightly scaled up by crisp white trousers and a striped silk button down complimenting his olive skin. His tussled, wet hair of the morning will have dried, now pushed back and slicked down. It’s a shiny, fitting accessory to the leather jacket he makes a show of stripping off in the archway of the lounge located in the back of the hotel lobby. Heads will turn as he glances around the room and he doesn’t have to double check to see if they do. They always do. He slings the jacket over his now bare shoulder in a smooth motion, opposite hand stuffed in his tight pockets. The stance makes the muscles of his now exposed arms tighten and flex a little. A woman sitting in the booth closest to the door wets her lips behind her wine glass when he meets her gaze. He smirks. She blushes, moving her glass closer to her face.

It’s too easy.

He only spares one other woman a glance as he glides towards the bar. She purposefully brushes her arm against his as he passes and her head tilts as he stops to look back at her. She’s arm-in-arm with a statuesque man dressed in a black suit that’s completely enthralled by the conversation he’s sharing with their group, unaware. A coy smile stretches across her lips as her eyes crawl over Jongin’s form. Before he can return her smile, she’s called back into the conversation and she looks away; nods as if she’s been following, taps her husband playfully with her left hand. Jongin doesn’t forget faces, or wedding rings, for that matter. Hers was quite the rock, gleaming as brightly as Jongin remembered it from earlier that morning even now, in the atmospheric lighting of the building.

He bites his lip. _Later,_ he tells himself. He recalls them having had an obscene amount of luggage unloaded from their taxi. She’ll be around.

Jongin hangs his jacket on the back of a stool and motions to the bartender, scanning down the long expanse of the bar. The first person he makes eye contact with takes a long, suggestive sip from their beer bottle without looking away from him. If that wasn’t obvious enough, the man tilts his sunglasses down and winks at him. Another familiar face, someone who arrived on the cruise ship currently docked on the southwest shore. Jongin has half a mind to slide down a few seats and indulge him, his boldness rather entertaining, but he can feel the presence of someone beside him and the thought dissipates quickly.

A sweet voice reaches his ear, “did I keep you waiting?” it asks, and a manicured hand settles on his shoulder. When he turns he feels the feather light touch of a fur coat tickling the hairs on his arm. All that lie underneath the heavy mink, now draped on her arms like a shawl, is a black lace slip dress that careens dangerously around the curves of her body. She never fails to beat him at the game of overdressing for the weather.

“No, ma’am,” Jongin answers lowly as he cranes his neck to kiss her cheek. The bartender finally approaches as she sits, but instead of asking for an order, he’s placing a glass of what looks like scotch on the coaster in front of him. Jongin eyes him questioningly. “Um, I didn’t order any –”

“Compliments of the gentleman in the white suit.” He doesn’t even bother to indicate which gentleman, despite there being several white suits in the room.

Jongin finds himself even more entertained.

His company, however, is not. He feels an authoritative hand on the back of his neck as he reaches for the glass, intent on at least giving the man a silent nod in thanks. She reaches for it instead as he recoils, leaning forward to look at the man as she raises the glass to her cherry red lips. She sips it smugly, expression unchanged though the liquid stings her throat.

Jongin watches, glancing back and forth from her mouth to her slender neck as she swallows. He licks his lips expectantly, hoping she’ll lean down and kiss him once the glass touches the bar again.

But she doesn’t. She lets her mouth fall to his ear as he eyes the lipstick stain on the rim of the glass hungrily. “Let’s get out of here, baby,” she coos, and Jongin slides off the bar stool immediately. He’s sure she would have kept staring the man down as Jongin shrugged on his jacket and wrapped an arm around her waist if he hadn’t already turned his back towards them, defeated. She slides her hand into Jongin’s back pocket as they exit, melds herself to his side as much as her plush mink coat will allow.

Words to describe the woman on Jongin’s arm escape him.

She introduced herself as simply Cat, but her driver’s license reads Winona Lorain Donavan, organ donor. Born June 25th, 1986. Five feet five inches, a hundred and forty-two pounds. Dark brown hair, brown eyes. While shifting through her belongings Jongin kept glancing at the sleeping woman in the bed in front of him, icy blonde hair sprawled across the pillow, questioning how this could be the same person in the passport photo. She’d gotten work done since it was taken. _Unnecessarily_ , he concludes as he studies her former features. He wasn’t expecting her to be that close to him in age, though it doesn’t bother him that she is. Most of his female clients are at least ten years his senior but always claiming to be younger, it’s just what he’s used to. For once a woman was honest with him about her age, and yet, still gave him a fake name. Typical.

Only daughter of an oil tycoon and beauty queen, three successful older brothers all following in their father’s footsteps while she took her mother’s path. Dozens of beauty pageants wins, decorated modeling career, a trust fund heiress living the typecast glamorous life. Her most recent relationship began five years ago, a marriage to one of the partners of the law firm that represents her father’s company. As far as public records are concerned, they’re still married. The husband, Simon Donavan, is apparently accompanying her on this eight-day “business trip,” but Jongin hasn’t laid eyes on anything of his besides his passport, a mug shot from 1997, and his banking information. Also, typical.

Winona herself holds two arrests for drunk and disorderly conduct, non-consecutive, the first at age 21 and the other at 25. Perfect credit surprisingly uncompromised by a healthy spending habit and the eight credit cards lining her wallet. Several bank accounts separate from her husband’s records. No kids, excluding the poodle she gets groomed each month. _Cute little guy_ , Jongin thought to himself while reviewing her file – a hefty attachment sent to him less than an hour after Cat had fallen asleep in his arms and he had to maneuver his way out from under her to begin digging.

Background checks this thorough are a commodity for him, but he knows they’re not common in his line of work. Escorting may not _exactly_ be illegal in Verona Cove, but knowing your clientele inside and out (pun intended) makes for a vastly different work experience. Jongin’s heard enough horror stories to know this is a wise step in building his list. He’s been lucky so far, avoiding bad tricks with ease and precision, using the inside knowledge provided to him to his advantage.

It’s times like this that luck doesn’t work in his favor. Cat would be the perfect client if it weren’t for one teeny, tiny, minuscule problem…

“I love you,” she moans for the third time, and Jongin’s glad his face is buried in her neck as she rides him in the back seat of her rental. Otherwise, she might have seen how far his eyes just rolled back into his skull. Not out of passion, although the enthusiastic way she’s bouncing in his lap does feel amazing, but out of annoyance. She’s grinding down on him, muscles clenched tight around his dick and he can feel her about say it again, mouth agape against his sweaty cheek and he really just _can’t_.

He grips her thighs to scoop her up and lay her across the back seat. She lands with a soft yelp, arms locked around Jongin’s neck, and as he sinks deeper into her he’s immediately reminded that he likes her moaning a lot more when it doesn’t sound like actual words. Cat is still clinging to him, holding him uncomfortably close, but it only takes a few thrusts before she’s letting go in favor of finding something else to grasp. One hand takes a firm grip to the side of the passenger seat after sliding against the steam along the window. The other scratches harshly down Jongin’s back before settling on his ass, pushing his unfastened pants further down his thighs as he surges forward.

If the steady rocking of the parked car they were in weren’t conformation enough, the sounds emitting from it, no longer muffled and bashful, were a definite clue. His every move is calculated and smooth, intentionally intoxicating, because Jongin would be damned if he wasn’t good at his job during any and all circumstances.

And maybe that’s what Jongin likes the most about what he does – not only showcasing and implying what he can provide simply by existing the way he does, but actually displaying it for the world to see on top of that. He’s proud that he can sweet talk many of his less adventurous clients to at least this, letting him fuck them into incoherency in public while the curious spectated from mere feet away. Then again, clients like Cat never needed much convincing and that takes a bit of the thrill out of it. Jongin takes a little bit of that fun back by making sure they’re anything but quiet about what they’re doing.

He snaps his hips roughly when she tries to quiet herself again, intent on making her scream instead of whimpering sweet nothings to him likes she wants to. One particularly wonderful drag of pressure has her attempting to cover her mouth and he immediately pins her arm above her head against the door’s armrest. He can’t imagine why anyone would actually encourage her to quiet herself the way she does; a voice like hers could be bottled and sold as an aphrodisiac. He expected her to be a lot louder naturally, having such a lewd attitude that greatly complimented his own, but she’s soft and quiet and affectionate in bed when not encouraged to do otherwise. Even in the privacy of their hotel room she’d opt for biting back sounds and mewling lowly into pillows and clutched fists. Jongin would have to tell her he wants to hear her, wants to hear his name vibrate off the walls, wants to hear how good he makes her feel. _“Tell me how much you love it, baby”_ always seemed to set her off like a fire alarm, blaring loudly at the slightest twinge of heat.

Jongin thinks that might be the first red flag he happily ignored.

Unlike most of his clients – ones that wanted to dominate and defile and do everything short of _literally_ eating him alive – Cat was possessive. While most looked at him with animalistic desire and entitlement, she looked at him with a strange sense of possession that lasted more than just a night. It was like she was intent on possessing him in all inflictions of the word, not just sexually or physically. He’s used to people playing that role of wanting to keep him forever, wanting every part of him, but it fades almost immediately after his service is provided. Jongin is just a stranger to them afterwards, and he likes it that way. He likes how it crassly imitates the act of working any old normal job (I mean, you wouldn’t consider your barista your friend or lover just for providing you with a service, would you? No matter how well that service was provided, you still don’t even remember their name after you’ve taken the first sip from your Splenda-sweetened almond milk French vanilla latte and exited their place of business).

He knows it’s not of his fault that she’s this way with him. No matter how ecstatically hard and fast he may be fucking into her at the moment, he can say with absolute certainty that he’s never given this woman the wrong idea. She pays for his time just like any other client and whether that time ends in sex has always been up to her (and it always does). Her choice to parade Jongin around like her newest possession wasn’t something he encouraged, but she enjoyed it thoroughly, so he obliged. In the six days they’ve spent together, he swears she’s been more aroused by the looks of jealousy she obtained any time she staked her claim on him. It was cute at first, how she’d be content on paying thousands of dollars just to have Jongin show her around the south shore and see her cling to the satisfaction of shamelessly flaunting him like a brand-new bag. He felt like they were filming a sitcom montage half of the time, dipping and diving into every little clothing and trinket store on the boardwalk. Watching her try on bikinis and lingerie and sun hats for hours, carrying her shopping bags, helping her choose souvenirs to bring back for her friends – Jongin felt more like a tour guide than an escort. It wasn’t until they were alone, having spent all day basking in the envy of others, that she’d finally pounce on him like he expected and allow him to actually give her what she paid for.

In the back of Jongin’s mind he saw it coming. She eyed him like the three pairs of shoes she bought on their last shopping spree, squeals about loving him in a way he’s sure mirrored her squeals of victory when obtaining material things of glamour and envy. He enjoyed purposefully mistaking her infatuated gazes for lustful ones for too long, and his short past with clingy clients told him to nip the problem in the bud as soon as possible. Or at least it would have if Jongin reflected on the past more. Unfortunately, his life was one of the present. And presently he was practically growling as his climax hit, bracing himself on the damp window so he wouldn’t fall over Cat, hips finally stilling as he spills into the condom. She probably would have been fine with it had he squashed her in the process, but that’s beside the point.

She’s laughing nervously as their breathing changes and the air around them quiets. He looks down at her, knowing how loud she gets with him seems to mortify her post-coitus. Her dress is pushed in ripples above her belly button, hair disheveled and frizzy, and face shiny with sweat as she leans up to survey the perfect hand print Jongin left on the window. She goes completely silent when her eye catches the brief form of someone standing outside the building they’re parked behind through it. They could undoubtedly see them (and had seen them) through the slightly fogged window, smoke rising from their face as they lean against the brick wall. When Jongin looks up they actually have the nerve to move closer, trying to see more as Cat shimmies down further between his legs.

Jongin pulls her up anyway, “don’t be embarrassed, I’m sure he enjoyed the show.” Persuading her into a kiss might not have been the smart thing to do, but it felt good to comfort her. All rigidness evaded her body as Jongin pushed his tongue passed her lips and she relaxes into him, climbs back into his lap and wraps her arms around his neck.

He nearly tosses her right back off when she cups his face tenderly and whispers “I love you” again.

Shaking his head is a politer alternative. “No, you don’t.”

“I think I know can decide what I love and don’t love, thank you very much,” she snaps back.

“I’m sure you can, but I’m telling you…you don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t love, this ugly little attitude. Fix it, mister.” She crosses her arms over her chest and this time Jongin doesn’t care if she sees him roll his eyes.

“Cat, come on, I –”

“Are you talking back to me?” she says sternly, and it’s honestly hard to take her seriously. Even on the obvious cusp of a tantrum, she’s still paying for compliance.

He sighs. “No, ma’am.”

“It sure sounds like you are,” she huffs, effortlessly steering back into her authoritative role as she tugs her dress down and shakes out the wrinkles. “The nerve. All I do for you and you can’t even take a simple compliment!”

The fact that she sees loving someone as a _simple compliment_ worries Jongin even further. Still, he opens his mouth to defend while tucking himself back into his pants. “Cat, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant that –”

“Well, you did,” she says, cutting him off. “Why on earth would I treat you so well if I didn’t love you?”

Jongin thinks back to all the people who paid just as handsomely as she did to spit in his mouth and call him a whore and chooses not to answer. She seems to find herself a saint for the way she interacts with him and that is just _rich_.

“Of course, I love you, darling,” she continues, “no one would spend this much on someone they didn’t love.”

There’s something extremely insulting about her tone that Jongin just can’t seem to word properly. Whatever it is, it’s pissing him off. Maybe it’s that fact that she’s implying no one has ever spent this much money for his time. It’s laughable, because he’s been paid double her daily rate for a single night with him. By all accounts her “love” was allowing Jongin to rob her blind. The lack of modesty is becoming, but not surprising. This is a woman who has always been able to permanently obtain what she wants in exchange for money. Still, she isn’t the first or second or third or even fourth person to act as if they were doing Jongin such a humongous favor by choosing to line his pockets in an effort to buy more than he’s offering. He’s always very clear with the people he propositions: he’s there for a good time, not a long time. There’s never any illusion of other intentions, he makes sure of that. Whatever perception of ownership they appoint over Jongin after that is their own wrongdoing and frankly not his fucking problem.

She’s still babbling, now clutching his arm with her head on his shoulder, and he really, really, _cannot_ deal with this.

“We’re perfect, you and I. Don’t you see how people look at us? Adore us? Want to be us? It’s just right for us to be together, Jongin, you can’t tell me you don’t realize that. I want you to have everything you deserve, I mean, you deserve more than this, so much more, darling. This can’t be how you want to live forever.”

 _Oh. My. Fucking. God._ _She’s one of those_. Jongin wants to chew his entire arm off and just leave it there for her to cuddle all the way back to wherever she came from. He couldn’t remember now and he couldn’t care less if he tried. Very few things unnerve Kim Jongin more than clients with White Knight Syndrome, it’s usually always tourists trying to whisk him away to a “better life” he didn’t ask for at all. How he lives his life is seen as a problem that needs to be fixed by the people most benefited by the how he lives his life; it’s a paradox he’s never understood. Cat would be the perfect client if she wasn’t convinced that she needed to “save” Jongin with her shallow infatuation, as if all he’s missing in his life is someone willing to spend time with him without the price tag. If it wasn’t time for this arrangement to end before, it definitely was now. Jongin had heard this song  & dance before and it ends with plane tickets left tucked in his payment envelopes and messages of scorn and betrayal on his voicemail and weeks of laying low until their credit card activity informed him that they’d left the country. _Fucking tourists._

“Cat, listen to me. You don’t love _me_ , you love what you pay me for, and what you pay me for is my company. Nothing more.” That was easier to say than he thought it would be, definitely easier than the last time and he wishes he had said it earlier.

“Are you really trying to say you don’t feel the same?”

 _Wow…okay…so she’s really not gonna get this shit, huh?_ “I’m sorry, Cat.” He’s not.

Her suddenly silence and stillness urges him to look down at her but he can’t. This is usually the part where the waterworks start and God help him if she’s crying. He really can’t handle that.

“Fine!”

 _Oh, she’s mad. Well, that’s more digestible,_ Jongin guesses.

“Get out!” Cat screams, reaching over him to yank at the door handle. “Get out of my car, you ungrateful bastard!”

“Actually, ma’am, I’m quite grateful,” he says flatly as he exits the car. Her delicate hands now pushing forcefully without really moving him makes him chuckle. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he smirks, watching her clumsily climb over the center console, accidentally hitting the hazard lights and the horn as she settles in the driver’s seat.

“Fuck you!” are the last words a(nother) person who claimed to love him _ever so very much_ speaks to him. He hopes those are the last words Cat ever speaks to him, at least. Her flight home doesn’t leave until tomorrow night, plenty of time for her to change _her_ attitude.

“Childish little bitch,” he mumbles under his breath. It’s rude, he knows, but necessary. No amount of money he was being paid was worth being Malibu Barbie’s live-in Ken doll. Her life was one of glitzy materialism and Jongin would just another shiny trinket she’d bought home from vacation – unfortunately for her, Jongin was one person that wasn’t drooling in envy of her glamorous life. He wasn’t desperate to cement a place for himself in it.

The weight of his payment from tonight hangs heavy in his jacket and still… _no fucking way._ He must have “damsel in distress” tattooed somewhere on this body that he can’t see because the number of clients he’s had to cut off like that recently have been disheartening. And here he thought most people visiting this island understood what he does.

He’s sure _Winona_ is speeding back to the Grand Plaza completely pissed off but satisfied that she left him stranded for the night with nowhere to lay his head. Sadly, it’s just another low down dirty hooker stereotype she mistook as Jongin’s reality.

He shrugs his jacket on, now a little more appropriate to wear in the cool night breeze, strolls out of the rear parking lot and down the road. He’s only about a block and a half away from home and part of him is glad he can enjoy a little of Verona Cove’s more bearable weather; he walks a bit slower than he needs to. It’s only half passed nine, so the restaurant he passes is still packed full and buzzing. There aren’t many people on the street besides a couple of smokers outside a coffee shop. As he rounds the corner he thinks of how many foreigners tell him how this part of his neighborhood looks the most like Italy. He’s seen pictures of the European country, but he’s sure his eyes don’t twinkle with nostalgia and recognition the way theirs do when viewing them. Some tell him it makes them feel at home, and he shares that sentiment with them, he guesses. Except he actually _is_ home.

There’s a long black hallway in front of him as he opens the front entrance of his three-story building, color-shifting neon lights casting blues and greens and pinks over the whites of his outfit. Bass is vibrating the floor and walls from all angles and it’s hard to figure out where the music is coming from. He passes a door on his left, adorned with vinyl sleeve covers all radiating from the large four panel window seating in the upper half. The staircase inside leads to the studio space and he knows no one is up there since the red bulb behind the security camera isn’t on. There’s an identical door a few steps away, alternatively decorated with plastic flowers, weathered post cards, and music show posters. He thinks of just climbing the staircase behind it and pouring himself into bed, but feels he should at least show his face before retreating into solitude. It sounds as though he and his roommates have quite a bit of company tonight.

He’s checking his reflection in the mirror lining the door at the end of the hallway enclosing the Kokomo, his landlord’s bar. His shirt is still unbuttoned two-thirds of the way down even though the tails are tucked into his pants. There’s clusters of hickeys on his neck and chest, a particularly _cute_ one plastered right on top of the tattoo below his sternum. His hair is beyond any sorting out, but he still looks damn good, that’s a fact.

The door knob is rattling when he reaches for it, and the band at the back of the room is half way through a Tommy Tutone cover when he opens the door. The melodic chorus of _“eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine~”_ rushes out immediately, bouncing off his eardrums and through the hallway. It’s a short jog down the steps into the seating area, now converted into half a dance floor to make room for the small crowd gathered at the stage’s edge.

“Hey, Jongin,” a sultry voice calls out to him, sugary-sweet affection dragging his name out into a high note. He turns to smile and acknowledge whoever called him, but every person in the direction his eyes fall waves happily at him. Every person besides the one person he recognizes.

“Good evening, ladies,” his tongue settles on, projecting over the music to the group sitting in the far most corner booth. “Oh, and Sehun,” he adds when the single gentleman of the group narrows his eyes at him.

“Yeah, yeah, hey Jongin,” he answers, waving him off. He knows Jongin did that on purpose just to fuck with him like he always does, that the jab wasn’t a malicious one. This time he lets him slide away without picking a battle of satirical offense. But just this time.

Jongin breezes passed the crowd around the stage easily, all attention commanded by the charismatic blonde belting into the mic. _“I got your number on the wall, for a good time, for a good time call~”_ He goes unnoticed by everyone in that section of the bar, except for the drummer. He makes eye contact with Jongin over one of the cymbals as he passes and playfully sticks his tongue out at him. The middle finger Jongin gives in return is met with a cartoonish smile as he croons backing vocals into his perched microphone.

The bartender is shouting out his name in welcome as he approaches, the live music no match for lungs like his, and Jongin has half a mind to ignore him. “Home already?” he teases as he wipes the glass in his hand clean with a towel. “I thought you had a date?”

He rolls his eyes and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding a thick envelope towards him. “I did.”

The man lowers his eyes and smirks as he grabs the envelope and inspects its contents.

Jongin’s praying there isn’t plane ticket stuffed in there alongside the bills.

“Very nice,” he says, reaching under the bar to file the payment away. “But still, we weren’t expecting you home for a few hours, I mean, you were with Paris tonight, right?”

“Baekhyun, stop making up names for my dates.” He may have thought it was a bit fitting as well, but come on. That’s an insult to Paris Hilton. _She just pretended to be an airhead for a decade of exposure…Cat definitely wasn’t pretending._

“Hey, don’t get mad at me because you got dumped,” he chuckles.

Jongin scoffs, “I wish.” Baekhyun’s already pouring him a glass of whiskey without him asking and he’s thankful, realizing he never did get to have the drink he wanted.

“L word?”

He grimaces. “Yup.”

“Yikes.”

“Uh huh.”

Baekhyun changes the subject quickly after that, aware of the conflicting emotions Jongin feels about the topic. He’d think it’s a testament to his expertise, how quickly people fall in love with his work persona, but it’s mostly just annoying. Most times he wants to just get his job done and go. His goal is to seduce, not romance, and he’s very goal-oriented. It’s the quality that earned him the unflattering nickname stitched onto the embroidered patch on his sleeve: heartbreaker. Somehow the brand seems to attract more than it repels people, and in his line of work, perhaps that’s the best thing about it. It’s a silent challenge to those seeking a little temptation, a call to defy all reason. It’s very clear that it makes people take up the task of trying to _change_ him, or maybe even make him ‘eat his words’ by trying to break his heart instead. It never works. He’d think to feel bad about it, but he’s never trying to make people fall in love with him. It always seems to happen regardless.

He watches the house band play a few more covers as the crowd shakes and moves to their command and he finishes his drink. He catches a few people watching him instead and never minds it, files away a couple new faces for when he clocks back in. He’s too mentally exhausted from Cat to entertain anyone else tonight.

The same can’t be said for his best friend Sehun, who he catches on the dance floor sandwiched between two of the women he was sitting with earlier. Knowing that patrons were used to seeing them work the floor as a duo and someone will eventually approach him, Jongin grabs a few pretzels from the bowl on the bar and heads for the back of the club. He pushes the heavy door open with his back, silently nodding a goodbye to the security guard. The large man tugs at his patchwork vest and nods in return, then quickly returns to his stoic stance against the back wall.

This hallway is more drafty, cold steel and lightly painted concrete trapping a coolness that doesn’t plague the carpeted, brick stairways in the front of the building. He quickly climbs to the third floor, four winding flights separating him from the warm embrace of his bed and he feels himself suddenly getting more tired with every step. The rear door of studio doesn’t pass by quick enough and he’s gripping the key ring hooked onto his belt loop when he finally reaches the top floor.

The house is dim and colorful thanks to the strings of festive lights hanging off of nearly every surface and shade. Someone left the television on, buzzing unrecognizable and drowned out by the noise in the basement. The familiarity kicks his body into auto-pilot and his jacket and keys are already hung by the door as he approaches his room. His clothes get tossed into the corner as he enters and he has to step over a laptop that doesn’t belong to him to get to his bed. His sheets smell of one of his roommate’s favorite cologne and he makes a mental note to kick his ass for being on his bed when he’s working. Again.

For now, he takes his passive vengeance by fishing through drawers that don’t belong to him for a pair of pajama pants and pulls them on before skipping off into the bathroom. The pants are too long, pudding around his feet as he stands at the sink and brushes his teeth, but the fleece is too soft and warm around his legs for him not to tolerate it. He can hear his cellphone vibrating loudly atop his mattress before he even gets back into his room. He sighs, knowing exactly who it was and how much he didn’t want to answer it.

The text that follows flashes across the screen as he throws himself onto the pillows and plushies stuffed in the corner against the wall.

 _I miss you already, darling_.

Jongin falls asleep to the comforting feeling of the building vibrating from below and the sound his phone pinging over and over, longing and possession lined in every message. All with no illusions of other intentions. Nothing more than a smooth, charismatic form and promises of temporary satisfaction. No desire of escape or distress from comfortably living his apparently unbearable existence.

It’s too easy.


	3. Sexual Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Playboy: There isn't a body in creation that Oh Sehun can't make move.

 

No one in the world moves the way Oh Sehun does; at least, that’s what everybody tells him. He hasn’t seen much of the world to know if people are telling him the truth, but it’s nice to hear. He wears the compliment like a badge, not unlike the ones stitched to his favorite leather jacket. Each label defines him, embellishes his figure like patchwork, and announces his presence to any space he enters without effort. Sehun is quite fond of effortlessness. He’s lived a life of constant affection and attention without much personal effort, it’s what he’s accustom to. It’s far more a blessing than a curse, fortunately, but his use of the antonymous adjectives to describe his life tend to vary depending on the situation his effortlessness has put him in.

At times like this, when he finds his back on the cold, hard floor with the room spinning around him, it’s not a difficult conclusion to come to – it’s a curse.

It’s a Friday night like any other Friday night at the CoCo Billiard Sports Bar & Lounge. Tucked behind a couple cheaper motels off Main Street, the lounge’s close proximity to the fluorescent coral of the Verona Grand Plaza tends to attract a few curious tourists in search of less traffic. On Friday nights the volume of unfamiliar faces always blooms passed the expected few. The ratio of locals to tourists is at a regular and uncomfortable 1:3, all thanks to the presence of the shiny Oldsmobile parked out front. It’s always there on Friday nights, right tires hiked up on the sidewalk because the driver is, as the bar’s owner affectionately calls him, ‘an annoying son of a bitch who really enjoys being in the way.’ The shimmering green convertible looks practically plucked from a nostalgic Hollywood set, parked close enough to the hydrant to make any firefighter’s blood boil. Contrasting every modern automobile in its presence, the vehicle even dates the exterior of the bar, with its sleek metal pillars separating tall frosted windows and cedar wood panels. The Oldsmobile serves as a final bread crumb of sorts, giving direction to those seeking out all the good promised by the young, leather clad bunch it chauffeurs.  

Anyone with eyes can see that Sehun is one of those young men, good times bountiful and tucked into his colors. After a ceremonious and graceful hop out of the emerald chariot, he’s welcomed with shouts of either his name or a varying nickname, depending on the crowd. It’s Friday, so he expects all the female voices calling out to him as he makes his dramatic entrance with his friends. He’s lured out from under the arm of his companion almost immediately and led up the stairs to the dance floor. He can be found there exclusively for most of the night. That is, if he doesn’t get caught up in one of the less populated corners getting acquainted with someone new.

 The woman pressed against Sehun’s chest is a frequent guest of the Grand Plaza, visiting the island four to five times a year to escape the changing seasons. It’s a story he hears often from Americans, and it’s the one she’s stuck with since meeting Sehun two years ago. He had a mind to question it once, but having lived under Verona Cove’s blissful and sometimes _blistering_ rays all his life has greatly impaired his ability to imagine wanting to run from autumn leaves and snowfall. The stunning twenty-something seemed to want to run from a lot of things, one being the fact that she was an excellent dancer, just pretending to be a horrible one to get closer to Sehun. She was a bad liar, not unlike many people he knew, and perhaps his ability to read her is what prompts her to be less talkative with him. Their encounters are always a strange combination of impersonal speech with intimate body language, a commodity that transferred from private to public interactions effortlessly. Perhaps it’s how much he knows about her body and how little he knows about _her_ that enamors him, has him boldly taking risks he normally wouldn’t with any other woman. Having so many people constantly offer so much information to him without prompt made a tight lip quite the frustration. It’s this enchantment of mystery that keeps him wanting to get closer to her, keeps him silently begging for more than just arms-length and stiff forms whenever they meet.

The woman that _was_ pressed against Sehun’s chest was named Somin, and the large bearded man now hovering over his fallen form with veiny hands tugging his shirt and shaking him violently, was apparently named Kevin.

 _Or maybe it was Kelvin,_ Sehun thinks in a daze, trying to recall the name that Somin shouted after he had hit the ground. _Or Calvin…Cameron?_ This definitely isn’t the first time Sehun’s ever been punched in the face, but times it’s actually happened have been few and far between. He’s much better at anticipating and dodging punches he sees coming, so this particular sucker punch has him more dazed that he expected to be. He can clearly hear the gasps and sudden hush that comes over the area, signaling that he’s gathered all attention on the dance floor. It’s usually for a more positive reason. He’d think to be embarrassed if he wasn’t in an environment undoubtedly filled with people who wouldn’t interpret the situation as something to blame him for.

Then again, just as many people could easily believe he had this coming to him.

Sehun can hear Somin’s voice mingling with the man’s as she shouts over him and the music. He had no idea she even had the lung capacity to scream, having never heard her voice raise to any alarming decibels, ever. His vision steadies enough to focus on her hysterical defense as she repeatedly calls the man obstructing most of his view things like “brute” and “asshole” as she yanks on his forearm. The action, while appreciated, only makes Sehun more nauseous as it appears she’s just assisting the man in bouncing his brain around his skull. The edges of his sight go fuzzy again, but he can see another pair of hands gripping the man’s broad shoulders from behind. More conversation becomes clear to him as patrons gather around them, more gasping and murmurs capsize over as the music lowers, and a voice sternly demands the blur of brawn to release him.

“Don’t make this any worse than it needs to be, man. Let him go!” The shaking stills almost instantly. “Now.” The voice commands.

He does let go, unfortunately, and Sehun grimaces as the back of his head hits the marble of the dance floor a second time, rattling his vision. By the time the pounding in his head stops trying to force his eyeballs out of their sockets, he can feel that his torso is being cradled by much softer hands than the ones that just shook the snot out of him. He tries his best not to snuggle into Somin’s chest like he wants to. The last thing he needs is a reason to get hit again. Although, it probably wouldn’t be too risky to try, considering that it’d be hard for the aforementioned brutish asshole to get a clear swing on him from his current position – curled up on the floor at the end a steel toed boot. He’d obviously missed whatever escalation to the altercation had transpired in the 30 seconds he had his eyes squeezed shut. All he can make out of the person digging their heel into the groaning man’s fingers is the back of their shirt, but their offensive stance is all too familiar to him. Knowing them, he easily concludes a jab at their smaller stature was to blame for their aggression.

The next voice might as well be carried by a blow horn. “Alright, that’s enough!!” The distance tells Sehun it’s coming from the bar directly across the room. The exclamation seems to freeze every person within earshot immediately. Well, every person except the one standing over Whatshisname, obviously preparing to kick the fetal man under his foot again. “Jongdae, I said that’s enough!!”

“But Dad! Beaver started it!” the blonde responds sarcastically as he steps onto and over the man’s back anyway, like he’s nothing but a doormat. A few approving snickers from the people around confirm to him that his classic television reference landed.

“Shut the fuck up, smart ass,” the other responds, completely unamused as he pushes through the crowd that’s spread into a circle around them. “You of all people know my rules, if you wanna stomp somebody out so bad, take it outside!”

Sehun is looking up at one of the red bulbs hanging from the ceiling when Somin’s face comes into his view, doe eyes turned down with concern and pouty lips agape. The ebony curls that frame her face are falling over her cheeks, crimson glow surrounding her in the dim lighting. He thinks of how Marvin Gaye’s melodic crooning of needing sexual healing would have made it the perfect moment for his vision to clear. If only his love of the song and his body’s automatic response to it hadn’t literally just got his lights knocked out. Somin leans down further to hold the back of his head, probably just to make sure his skull is still intact, but he enjoys how much closer it brings her to him nonetheless. The tussling of his hair doesn’t sting, so he concludes he isn’t bleeding. Externally, anyway. The thought of touching his lips to the heat of her cheeks crosses his mind and simultaneously makes his jaw throb. In actuality, it has been hurting pretty bad the entire time, the taste of blood pooling on his tongue only becoming apparent when he briefly contemplates using his mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, leaning down closer.

He nods weakly, reaching up to cup his face and feel around, hoping for the correct placement of all his facial features.

Somin smiles down at him only for a second before snapping her head around to the much larger guy lying a couple feet away from them, gripping his stomach. “Kenneth!”

 _Oh, so that’s his name,_ Sehun thinks as he cranes his neck up to look at him. His height and build are still intimidating as he’s sprawled out on the ground, but the shaking had definitely exaggerated how long his beard was. Sehun’s blurred perspective made his five o’clock shadow look a lot thicker.

“What the hell is your problem?!”

“My problem?! Well shit, Minnie, I guess seeing my girlfriend being groped by some scrawny shit is my fucking problem!”

 _Girlfriend,_ Sehun wants to repeat, stumbling up to his feet with Somin’s help. He sighs, honestly not too surprised. The realization stings a bit, though; even the angry use of a nickname he wasn’t aware of seemed to rub in the shallow nature of his relationship with her. Still, it’s not a wonder why this guy would be on the list of things she was using Sehun to run from. Now that he’s standing he can see the owner of the bar (and the authoritative blow horn voice) is on the dance floor with Kenneth’s bulky arm in his grip, easily dragging him along thanks to his mirroring physique. Jongdae and a few spectators are hot on their trail, nosily scurrying to the banisters around the edge of the second floor for a better view.

 “You want me to show him the door, Sam?” Jongdae interjects, stepping up from behind him and comically cracking his knuckles.

“You’ve done quite enough, thanks,” he deadpans, nearly tossing the man down the first few steps of the staircase.

Sehun can see over the railing now, and even a few of the pool tables on the first floor. He shrinks back a little when he realizes a lot more people are peering up at him than he thought would be. The bartender on the lower level is the only one nice enough to continue stacking dirty glasses when Sehun makes eye contact with him. Others aren’t willing to spare him the embarrassment, having probably witnessed the entire debacle from the minute Kenneth stormed up the stairs.

“And just who the fuck do you think you are?!” Sam continues, pushing Kenneth’s back to urge him down each step. “Can’t you fucking read, you Neanderthal?!” He snatches a flier from off the wall closest to the staircase and sticks it to the back of his shirt, right over Jongdae’s impressive boot print. The only words visible passed blurred hands and flickering strobe lights is the time and day, but Sehun knows exactly what it says underneath Sam’s palms. “Next time you storm into someone’s club maybe make sure you’re not about to pick a fight with a dance teacher for doing his fucking job!” Sam shoves him in the back a few more times and past people standing to the side against the rails. He pushes right into the arms of the two security guards waiting at the bottom. “Get him out of here!”

Somin helped Sehun to one of the couches near the DJ booth, leaving him with a kiss on his forehead and several apologies before grabbing her purse and quickly following behind Kenneth. Jongdae plops down beside him, chuckling as the music picks back up and everyone awkwardly goes back to their games, drinks, and dancing. Jongin twirls his current partner past the couch, mouthing a question of concern over the woman’s shimmying shoulder. Sehun nods in response, then turns towards the wall to spit out the blood he’d been swishing around his mouth. Some of it lands on his sleeve as it fountains over the back of the couch and he whines, realizing the back of his favorite shirt probably looks as dirty as his attacker’s. He’s not going to take it off, figuring that he could just unbutton it and divert attention to his chest.

Sam approaches them, handing a small cup of ice to Sehun and shaking his head. “Do you boys have to cause trouble in my place every fucking week?”

“Come on, Samwell, you know that shit wasn’t my fault,” Sehun groans, jerking lightly as he presses the cold plastic cup against his cheek. He can hear Jongdae suck his teeth beside him and he’s scowling up at Sam when he turns towards him.

“I told you about getting too hands on with these lessons,” Sam scolds.

“Hey, I can’t control how my body moves to the music. Tell the DJ not to play slow jams if I’m supposed to be teaching people to waltz.”

Jongdae snorts at his joke, and maybe Samwell was laughing, too. On the inside.

“Look, boys, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this ain’t The Kokomo. You wanna fuck people’s wives and knock each other’s teeth out? Do it in your bar.”

“Then who else would keep your Fridays eventful, old man?” Jongdae teases with a smirk, kicking a leg up onto the black velvet couch.

“And you,” he points, crooking his finger and beckoning Jongdae to lean over to catch what he says. With a firm hand on Jongdae’s shoulder, he evens his voice as he moves towards the younger’s ear.

Sehun doesn’t hear what Samwell says to Jongdae and he knows he’s not supposed to. He does see Jongdae’s expression stiffen, obviously not entertained by the personal lashing. His eyes cast down as Samwell leans up and pats his shoulder roughly, nodding when the elder asks if he had made himself clear.

Sam sighs, glancing over the two boys once more before weaving back through the reformed crowd to the bar station. This was far from the first time fights have broken out in his club, of course, but he’s used to them being on the pool room floor between drunk billiard players or aggressive sports fans. _Fridays are supposed to be easy_ , he thinks as he rolls his eyes.

From the position of the rear corner bar, you can see the entirety of the dance floor and much of the ground floor over the railings. The layout of the lounge mimics a somewhat battle of the sexes: a majority of the female patrons are seated upstairs or on the dance floor while most of the males are at the lower level bar, pool tables, and poker tables. The second floor “club” level, which only spans lengthwise over half of the first floor, isn’t fully embraced by the locals as much as the tourists. The addition was honestly one of necessity, not desire. There’s plenty of dance clubs on Ko Ko Beach, as well as plenty of sports bars, but the combination at CoCo Billiards makes it stand out among the rest. Its fuller spectrum of night life activities gives a unique sense of community and mutual voyeurism. While the women watch the men, the men watch the women, and the latter is the one that usually causes a lot of the trouble. The club level hasn’t necessarily brought _more_ drama, just a different kind.

Sehun is one of the three dance instructors that uses Samwell’s lounge as a classroom and for student recruitment, and by that relation, one of his biggest trouble makers. At first the venue was of their own accord, doing everything short of physically planting a flag on the building to claim their territory. Samwell is a local after all, so he’s fully aware of the way these guys work. There’s a lot of good and bad that comes to businesses that welcome the Good Time Boys. The bad outweighs the good for many, but years of gentrification to Main Street have been extremely unkind to Samwell. Facing bankruptcy and the possible loss of his family’s legacy made the offering of steady traffic and further financial assistance too good to pass up. Sustainability was easily worth turning a blind eye to the bad the boys may or may not bring. Their Friday night crowd is usually the least of Samwell’s worries. Usually.

It only takes a minute or two before another student approaches Sehun while he sits massaging his jaw. He sees the white, flowing layers of her sundress first because his head is down. She bends down into his view and places a comforting hand on his knee.

“You poor thing,” she coos at him, barely audible next to the speakers of the DJ booth.

Her name is Michaela, and she asks if he’s okay as she rubs circles in his thigh. Sehun admittedly doesn’t look up too quickly because the view down the plunge of her dress is a lot more pleasing than the black & white marble dance floor. Her jet-black hair mirrors that of a waterfall, cascading down her chest and framing her small, heart shaped face. Concern beams from her expressive face, but Sehun doesn’t really buy that she’s all that concerned about him – just about getting the time with him she’s been promised.

Jongdae scoots over to make room for her on the couch and Sehun doesn’t even let her move near him, whisking her off to the dance floor instead. It’s the wisest decision, as leaving any unattended clients near Jongdae isn’t a smart idea. His naturally magnetic charisma makes him a notorious time suck. He’s still at work after all, and a missed ‘lesson’ under any form could cost him and reward another in his entourage. Not being much of a dancer really wouldn’t stop Jongdae from swooping in.

Michaela enamors him in different ways than Somin. She’s more predictable, more vocal, and easier to teach because he’s not constantly analyzing her ever step, move, and word. Much of what she says sounds exactly like the things women always say to him. He’s only been instructing her for the last three days and she’s already gone through the basics – how suave and fluidly he moves, how alluring and enchanting he is, how much she envied whoever he goes home to. She ignores his instructions to keep her frame tight and forgets a few steps in the salsa routine he taught her yesterday, but he expected all of that. Just as he expected her to slide her hands over his chest, trace the lines of his tattoos and smooth her hands over the back of his head. There’s repeated attempts to reach under the only buttoned portion of his shirt to touch his hipbones, the last of which he doesn’t cleverly deflect.

None of this is surprising behavior. She’s not the first student to shamelessly grope him tonight, and she probably won’t be the last. She was, however, one of his only students who left their clueless male companion downstairs to gamble away their vacation funds. She was bolder than most, willingly heightening the stakes of getting caught red handed every time they drifted to the edge of the dance floor. Even though Sehun knows the man is way too enthralled with the poker game taking place a floor below to notice his wife’s actions, it’s still exciting to participate in. Unlike his present business partner, Sehun didn’t appeal to many married women. Perhaps he could say that Jongin has a “type,” if that kind of phrasing didn’t imply that he seeks out these kind of women as opposed to them seeking him out. They’re not so much _his_ type of partner, but he’s definitely _theirs_. Sehun isn’t sure if their usual dismissal of him was much of bad thing. Considering that his few married clients get him into more confrontations than he’d like to be in, not attracting married women isn’t really a problem he’s out to fix. He’s not their type of partner. At least, not for the kind of tango they seem to prefer Jongin for.

Sometimes he thinks that he ought to be jealous of that, but when witnessing some of the things his best friend deals with, he’s glad to be a different “type.” Frankly, none of his students are really his type, either.

Women, in a general sense, do interest him to an extent, though. He enjoys being in the company of women. They’re friendly and generous and gawk over him in a way that makes both his heads swell with conceit. Where his smugness and cattiness are a source of ridicule with most of his male counterparts, the traits make him more relatable to the kind of women who flock to him. Women have been telling him how comfortable they are around him since he was a teenager. He doesn’t make himself seem above them, doesn’t talk over them or play games with their emotions. It’s also made abundantly clear to him that much of their quickness to attach themselves to him is due to his appearance. You’d be hard pressed to convince Sehun he’s anything less of a beauty, even without all the attention from his diverse array of students. Many of the women he teaches treat him like a toy, make a game of competing for his affection and trying to fluster him.

He thinks back to Somin as Michaela’s hands grace the small of his back, both now completely under his shirt. The two completely mirror the two types of women he deals with on a daily basis. Where Somin is quiet and reserved, more interested in his dancing, Michaela is outspoken and open, more interested in his body. Somin just wants to dance with him while Michaela just wants to fuck him. Strangely, he didn’t feel a need to choose one over the other. Both types were just fine with him.

“You know, I really don’t _get_ all the talk about you,” she starts suddenly, finger tips now tracing along his belt loops. She hooks her finger through one of them and eliminates the few inches between their hips, pressing into him before continuing. “You seem pretty straight to me…”

Sehun chokes on a cackle. Perhaps she’s on to something; perhaps he does appear _pretty straight_ at times like this. Times when he’s haphazardly grinding against a beautiful woman he barely knows, half hard on the dance floor and breezing through a line of others just dying to get their hands on him. Perhaps what she said isn’t something he can logically argue with, though he knows it not to be true.

Michaela leans in as if she’s going to kiss him and Sehun can’t help but indulge. The Michaelas of his life always make it so easy to indulge.

He draws the circle of his arm around her waist a bit tighter, the near collision of their lips completely purposeful. She chases his mouth with her eyes, nails digging into his bare sides. Using his free hand to push her hair behind her ear, he touches his lips to her chin, just below her mouth. She seems to melt instantly, nearly going slack in his grip and shuddering as his lips ghost across her jaw and up to her ear.

“Do I, now?” he chuckles, still swaying to the music and leading their bodies.

“Well, yes,” she speaks up, “unless you’re going to tell me this is a beer bottle in your pocket or something…”

One of her hands smooths over his hip again, obviously making its way to his crotch, and he steps back to grab her hand, despite knowing how good the contact would feel. He figures that wasn’t _pretty straight_ of an action to take, as she scoffs in response. He grips her waist and whips her around gracefully, chest to her back and fingers tracing gently down her arm to rest below her breast bone. She presses back into his crotch, swiveling her hips slowly with her eyes trained on Sehun’s face. He’s trying hard to control his expression and his minimal reaction throws her. He really had the nerve look annoyed.

“What’s wrong? Seems like you’re enjoying yourself so far.” She’s not wrong. He was enjoying himself, as he always does, but even he has a threshold. He’s already been punched in the face once tonight, he’d be damned if it happened a second time. He’s not even the one making all the moves this time, so it wouldn’t even be justifiable.

“Sometimes it has a mind of its own,” he says flatly. If she looked offended before he spoke, he hadn’t notice. He rests his chin on her shoulder, shamelessly peering down the valley of her cleavage as he continues rolling softly to the music against her. “And besides,” he curves his hand to cup over of her right breast, not even inspiring a flinch when he slides his fingers under the dress to her bra. “You, yourself, seem pretty married to me.”

Her face hardens. “What?”

“You heard me,” he replies, raising the hand he’d seemingly been returning her fondling with up to his face. A sparkling wedding ring he had fished from its hiding place is around his middle fingertip, offensively bright and reflecting every strobe light above them. “Unless you’re gonna tell me this is a nipple ring or something…”

The dance ends there and Sehun is glad it does. He shrugs, figuring he’d be pretty upset if he thought he’d successfully fooled someone into thinking he was single, too.

His next student doesn’t miss a beat, stepping up quickly after Michaela storms off cursing under her breath. She’s a bit older, a lot shorter and leagues happier. Her name is Rene and she waves to her husband on the lower floor as they dance, speaks of her grandchildren and how Sehun reminds her of her son. It’s refreshing, hearing a happy woman relay her life to him so casually. Sehun doesn’t meet many happy women. Horny ones, yes, but rarely happy. He dances with 8 other students throughout the rest of the night and no other competes with Rene in that aspect. They’d much rather complain about their lives and he guesses Rene has been like them once before – when she was in her mid-twenties and unsatisfied with most things and unsure about more.

Rene is one of the Somins of his life, and after tonight’s debacle he silently hopes she can be as happy as Rene one day. They already have a love of dancing in common, a familiar passion for the craft Sehun can feel radiating through their fingertips as they dance. It’s pure and inspiring being around people so much like himself. He loses track of time dancing with the older woman. They both seem to, actually. Rene indulges in the blissfulness of how easy it is to lose yourself in the music and forget the world when you’ve got the right dance partner, and Sehun doesn’t mind at all.

It’s about midnight when Sehun finishes his lessons. He’s a little behind Jongin, who has already retired to the bar and gotten trapped in conversation with Samwell and a particularly clingy student. Her hand is nestled high on Jongin’s thigh and Sehun gives him a sly, knowing smile as he slips passed them to the bathroom tucked into the corner. There’s finally time for him to acknowledge how bad his feet hurt and the fact that his jaw still aches a bit; still, he’s ecstatic about this chapter of his night being over and the next beginning soon. The bathroom is empty, so he lingers in the wall of mirrors separating the sinks and urinals. There’s lipstick smeared on his collarbone, and the back of his shirt is unfortunately just as dirty as he feared. He pops the last button and drops it in the sink behind him, lets the water pool and splash over the counter as the bowl fills. After admiring of his reflection a bit, he rolls and wrings out his shirt, suddenly deciding to use it as a rag to wipe away the lipstick and any other makeup on his skin (there’s a lot more than he originally noticed). Samwell scolds him as he emerges from the hallway half naked with the damp shirt slung over his shoulder, throwing a crushed lemon wedge at the back of his head. Sehun just laughs heartily, wading through the packed crowd still on the dance floor. Someone runs their hand across his chest as he passes and Sehun doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even think look back at the giggling group of people until one of them whistles at him. That, at least, gains them a wink over his shoulder.

When he reaches the booth, he’s unsurprised to see Jongdae isn’t alone. His two companions join him in looking up at Sehun begrudgingly. The smaller man reaches out when Sehun gets close enough and flicks his nipple, expression unchanged but with a cheerful glint in his eyes.

“Ow! What the fuck, dude?”

“Where are your clothes?” he asks, expression still flat and unreadable.

 “We all know he won’t really need those for the rest of the night,” the other chimes in, ashing his cigarette on the table in between them. His grin is annoyingly bright in the low lights and Sehun scoffs as he reaches for the jacket draped over the back of the couch.

“Oh, shut up, Chanyeol. Beats standing outside all night waiting on shaky, shifty stoners,” he retorts. The jacket slapping the man in the back of the head isn’t an accident, but Sehun still lets a “whoops” slip from his lips. 

“I’ll take waiting on stoners over sticking my face in glory holes all night.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Cock sucker.”

“Damn right.”

“Will you two cut it out? Jesus, fucking children,” Jongdae cuts in, even though he’s laughing along with the rest of them.

“Yeah, there aren’t even any glory holes here,” the first adds, sipping from the glass in his hand as the group turns to glare at him. “What? There aren’t…”

“Forget it, he’s just mad no one on earth would ever pay him for head,” Sehun laughs, slipping into the slick leather of his jacket and tossing the damp shirt in Chanyeol’s direction. “Come on, Kyungsoo, we’ve got work to do.”

“Can’t keep ‘em waiting, huh, Playboy?” Chanyeol exclaims, slapping the patch on Sehun’s left sleeve a few times playfully. Encouraging, as always, despite constantly teasing Sehun (and Jongin, of course) over his second occupation. It’s an easy target and if there’s one thing Chanyeol has a liking for, it’s _easy_.

Sehun doesn’t pay him much in reaction to the nickname and knocks his hand away, moving over to tug Kyungsoo up from his spot beside Jongdae. He lets him gulp down the last of his drink before asking who they were going to be entertaining tonight.

Kyungsoo keeps quiet until they’re away from the crowd and descending the stairs, ever vigilant and cautious. Sehun stays a step behind so he doesn’t have to bend down to listen to the smaller man, although he doesn’t mind when he must. Kyungsoo tells him the names of some of the men gathered in the closed off room directly under the high stair case – the High Roller Room. Many of the names sound familiar to him, but some were newcomers. Sehun smirks. He and Kyungsoo never have problems with new high rollers, so smooth sailing may be ahead. May be, because Sehun’s smart enough to know that things can get rocky at moment’s notice.

The room is full of smoke and the smell of several expensive colognes, an aroma Sehun never gets tired of attacking his nostrils when he slides through the heavy wooden doors. It reminds him of home, rare moments when nobody is busy or they’re laying low, when there’s nothing to do but smoke and eat and annoy each other. The tables are spread out evenly around the large, circular room: two poker tables against both the north & south walls, a blackjack table at the east and west, and a craps table smack dab in the middle. Each seat is taken, as typical of a Friday night. Sehun can spot the new additions like a hawk, even if curiosity doesn’t compel them to turn and look at whoever entered the room. They’re always the ones sitting too hunched over their cards or chips, tense shoulders and darting eyes. Their money is never out on the table like everyone else’s, having not yet gained the confidence to flaunt whatever they’re accumulated like the regulars. Unlike the game tables in the open ground floor gambling area, everyone just carelessly leaves stacks of hundreds out in front of themselves. The armed security at each corner and half a dozen cameras serve their purpose well. The freedom of immediately displaying your winnings is a privilege reserved to this one space and you aren’t even allowed the key card used to enter without hefty collateral. If you’re looking for an opportunity to steal, this wouldn’t be the smartest place to do it.

A few waiters nod to the two of them as they enter from the opposite door, the rear entrance to the kitchen. Two are carrying drink trays, the others hovering large main courses over themselves and a few patrons as they make their way to patio area. It’s the only place left to stretch your legs and relax, glass incased and covered in twinkling string lights. Small trees and artificial foliage cover the front facing windows, camouflaging and accenting the front of the building. The wall it shares with the adjacent room is curved and fitted with two-way mirror panels. You can’t see into the High Roller Room from inside, another precaution taken to deter any cheaters and hustlers.

Well, at least the ones not employed by the house.

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot,” Kyungsoo squawks, startling Sehun. He reaches into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket and pulls out a brown snakeskin wallet.

Sehun scrunches his nose. He can see the chain of Kyungsoo’s own wallet cascading out of the front pocket of his dark jeans.

“For your troubles,” he says with a smirk, pulling Sehun’s wrist and placing the wallet in his palm. The name on the Massachusetts driver’s license inside reads Kenneth D. Hosier.

When Sehun looks up to question Kyungsoo, the man is no longer by his side, having quickly scurried away to bother the dealer of the closest blackjack table. Sehun shakes his head and laughs. He can’t even recall Kyungsoo being present during the earlier scuffle.

Sehun tucks the wallet alongside his own and slowly makes his way to the craps table. Gentle steps carry him around it and though he’s attempting to be nonchalant, the jig is already up; he’s effortlessly made for what he is by every set of eyes in the room. There’s an array of gentlemen standing around the table he comes to, along with a lone woman prettily sitting on the edge of the table with her back to him. The man next to her has a possessive hand on her hip, perhaps to make sure she doesn’t tip over the apron. It’s Luna, one of the High Roller waitresses, and she looks at Sehun over her shoulder when he approaches.

She smiles at him as widely as the cigar between her lips will allow and raises an eyebrow. It’s a signal of contentment they discussed in case they ever need to bail each other out of trouble. Had she tucked her hair behind her ear and tapped the back of her ear twice, he would have intervened. She’s fine, no worries, so he lingers a little closer to his intended target.

“Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in?” The person has their arm around Sehun’s waist before he can even register he’s being spoken to. “It’s my good luck charm.”

He smells like Wild Turkey bourbon, a brand Sehun can now identify immediately thanks to his company. A large hand slips down over and under his jacket after a short embrace, warm fingers stroking over bare skin under the fabric and Sehun doesn’t say a word. He just smiles as he melts into the touch, thankful that these kinds of hands can do more than ball into fists. These kinds of hands can comfort him, guide him, and make him feel welcomed as well. Hands like these are the kind of hands Sehun feels all too comfortable in.

“I’ve been talking to my new friends about you,” he says in a low tone into Sehun’s ear. It’s loud enough that some can hear him, but not as obnoxiously boisterous as Sehun’s knows the man can get.

“Joey,” Sehun whines, hiding his face behind the man’s shoulder, “you know I hate when you brag about me.” He doesn’t. He likes it a lot. He loves it, actually. But men like Joseph like shy little things and it’s lucky for Sehun that he’s an expert at playing coy.

“Oh, nonsense, baby, nonsense,” Joseph tuts, sliding his hand through Sehun’s short hair. It’s almost like he’s petting him but he’s aware the other likes it. “You know you’re always a hot topic ‘round here.”

A couple of the men look up at him as they finish placing their bets for the next Come-Out roll. The pair Sehun recognizes don’t make eye contact with him, just linger on his bare chest and his slender fingers running along the curve of Joseph’s ear. _Typical._ The taller one noticeably sneers, jealousy burning in his eyes, and Sehun has to hide his snicker behind his sleeve by pretending to wipe his lip. _What a baby_. He never thought men had the capacity to be so passively envious before beginning this career. Though having men fawn over him was a lot more exhilarating at times, more dangerous, times of childish envy displayed in his honor always make him chuckle. The two on either side of Luna seem more preoccupied with her, both staring adoringly at her radiance as she lists of some drink specials. The last gentleman is hovering over the table, eyes on the various stacks placed in play by the others. Many have abandoned using the chips to represent their bets, finding the dominance of packaged bills fresh from the cashier’s booth a lot more aesthetically pleasing. His bet is just as large as the others but for some reason he looks…wary. Sehun zeroes in his gaze on him, completely ignoring how Joseph is nuzzled into his neck. When the stranger finally does look up, Sehun narrows his eyes at him, smiles and waves with the hand draped over Joseph’s shoulder. He seems to glance around for a second, as if he’s certain Sehun can’t be acknowledging him, then drops his head again. He’s blushing a bright red and _God_ , does Sehun love new High Rollers. Things are always effortless with someone new. A little attention from anything pretty and they’re practically shooting stars.

“Hey, Playboy.”

Sehun peeks up at the man on the farthest end of the table, tall and slim in a navy-blue plaid suit. His hair is slicked back, jet-black to match his distinct and expressive brows. He’s the first shooter up in this round and he’s shaking the dice in his hand quite low and close to his hip in an obviously suggestive manner. Sehun’s never seen him in person before tonight, and he suddenly aware that pictures don’t do him much justice.

“Why don’t you come over here and lend me some of that luck of yours?”

Sehun looks to Joseph instinctively.

Joseph glances from the shooter to Sehun and back, stroking his chin with a chip fitted between his ring and pinky fingers. He knows Sehun won’t move without his permission and the others know it, too. “I suppose I’ve taken enough your money, Yifan.” He gives Sehun’s ass an encouraging pat and push in the shooter’s direction.

Yifan, or _Plaid Suit_ , as Kyungsoo had nicknamed him during their earlier briefing, is a friend of Joseph and brand new to their little operation. Sehun hadn’t worked alongside him ‘til now and there’s an extra jolt of adrenaline that comes with acquainting himself with a new partner. All the man offered as a profession was “businessman” and knowing all he does about him, Sehun found it to be a gross understatement. Athlete management, horse races, gun running, contracting – Yifan was as experienced as a businessman as he was an experienced conman. Gambling was not his only vice, but it certainly seemed like his specialty. Sehun’s made sure of that when he barely feels the man fish the pair of loaded dice out from his back pocket and replaces them with the ones he had in his hand before. He disguises the exchange as easily as Joseph did when planted the dice on Sehun, tugging him close by his empty belt loop and whispers a ‘hello there’ into his ear with his other hand shamelessly griping his backside. Joseph watches them carefully, noisily pushes his bet further onto the table as to distract any eyes wandering towards them, which there were a lot of.

Plaid Suit – who Sehun has to keep reminding himself has an actual name – rolls three 7s in a row with Sehun tucked snugly under his left arm. He’s quickly awarded with the money Joseph previously “took” from him before rolling a pair of snake eyes, coincidentally just as Sehun is pulled from his side by Kyungsoo. The smooth retrieval of the real dice and replacement of the loaded pair Yifan completes while tugging at him is done so expertly it actually surprises Sehun, and not much surprises him. It’s an impressive slide of hands among hoots and hollers around the table, camouflaged as needy groping no one in attendance is unfamiliar with. Seeing someone pawing at everybody's favorite good luck charm is a familiar sight to everyone.

Well, everyone except the blushing newbie. He's watching Sehun carefully, almost too carefully, and Joseph seems to notice that. Among the uproar of the players, Joseph addresses him loudly while he’s preparing to roll after Yifan.

“Alright, I’m out, I’m out! I can handle this son of a bitch taking my money but not you, new guy!” He pats the man's back playfully, but the force still knocks him a little off his feet.

The man laughs, wide smile wrinkling his features when Joseph asks for his name. “Just call me Quincy,” he says in a confident voice.

Sehun thinks he's more handsome when he holds his head up, speaks clearly, and even more so when he sees him rolls a couple sevens on his own. Tucked away in the corner with Kyungsoo, he inspects the weight of the "lucky" pair Plaid Suit slipped back to him, just to make sure they hadn't made a mistake. _You've got some nerve_ , he thinks to himself as he shakes his head. Someone like him thinking to make sure the house isn't being cheated is quite comical. _Hypocritical_ , his conscious sneers, but he shakes it off as Joseph creeps up behind him.

"Sehun, come here," he coos, voice sweet and light, lightyears away from the authority he spoke with moments ago. "I want to properly introduce you to my new friends," he finishes with a wink, and Sehun knows exactly what that means.

And so does Kyungsoo, apparently, because he's disappeared once again when Sehun looks up.

Joseph had a lot of friends and they always wanted to meet Sehun. Friends Sehun could spot from miles away, even if they weren’t sitting close and observant at neighboring tables paying no mind to their own games. Friends that locals liked to call Yankees, a term Sehun was once so ignorant to that its hilarious that it now sparks his interest instantly. Friends with expensive wristwatches and cufflinks that made Sehun's fingers twitch. Friends he'd usually meet for the first time in the lounge of the men's room, if they were the bolder type, while he'd meet shyer, more reserved types behind locked stall doors and employee lounges.

Whatever the type, Sehun always found them to act similar. He always seemed to make men nervous, unsure of themselves, and he's not really sure why. It would only take a little casual conversation and a few light touches for them to (literally) open up to him. Many weren't new to arrangements such as the ones they'd engage in with him, but he figures no interaction like this will ever cease to be awkward at first.

Sehun isn't surprised when the first man he sees enter the men's room is wearing a navy blue plaid suit and has to bow his head to avoid hitting the door frame.

"Yifan," Sehun says aloud, reminding himself not to call him by Kyungsoo’s lazy code name.

"Yes," he confirms with a lopsided smirk. He locks the door behind himself, which Sehun hadn't expected. Perhaps he'd jumped to the conclusion of him being a bit more open and shameless. "Nice to see you again."

Sehun doesn't have time to think of how deep and warm his voice is now that they're alone before he's thinking that his hands and lips are even warmer. The man barely pauses as he ushers Sehun towards the couch of the sitting area, and between unfastening buttons and flipping bottle caps Sehun nearly forgets that he's supposed to ask for his payment up front. By the time it crosses his mind there's already slender fingers gripping his hipbones and something with a lot more girth than the plug he's been clinching around all night up his ass; _this is fine_ , he thinks, even though it may not be. _It’s fine, this is okay_ , this guy may be a stranger to him but Sehun knows that he's got too much invested in this alliance to stiff him (pun intended).

One of the hands moves up to Sehun’s neck, squeezing tight at the sides, and as nice as it feels Sehun has to stop him. "Hey, hey, gentle," he stutters out, gripping Yifan's wrist, "Daddy doesn't like it when I have bruises."

"Hah, okay," he scoffs, not sounding convinced but compiling anyway. He slots the fingers into Sehun's mouth instead, humming contently when Sehun immediately sucks them. "But if that's the case, _Daddy_ isn't going to be very happy about the way your face looks..."

Sehun's suddenly aware once again that his jaw aches and despite bringing attention to the purplish bruises on his bottom lip and cheek, Yifan keeps yanking at that side of his face, forcing him to look at the mirror over the couch. He can see faint redness around the split philodendron leaf tattooed on his neck, and that his lip is still bleeding, cut ripped back open from his current gnawing. He can also see down the span of his back, how his shoulder blades bow and how beautifully his back arches, right down to where their hips meet each other's. He bucks his hips back a few times as Yifan is thrusting into him and God, he can't help but think of how great he looks like this. He’s practically drooling at the sight of himself in the mirror and surprisingly isn’t ashamed of it. He feels so much smaller than Yifan as he watches their movements, but maybe that's only because the other is still fully clothed while he's completely naked.

When Yifan reaches down to cup his balls he yelps, not expecting Yifan to actually touch him, as most of his clients never really bother with pleasuring him. Cold metal buttons have him hunching his back as they touch his spine, the smooth silk of Yifan's dress shirt too soft in contrast and he's absolutely aching for all of this. That warm voice is back in his ear, telling him he's a good boy, that he's made for this, how all the talk about him doesn't do him justice. It's all things Sehun is used to hearing while being fucked and he finds it rather boring most of the time. And yet, in this moment, and only because he's been anticipating being with this guy for days, it's the best thing he's heard all night. All he wanted this guy to be he most certainly was, and Sehun thinks the talk around _him_ doesn't do him justice either.

It only takes a few more strokes and thrusts before Sehun's arms give out and he's cursing into the couch cushion, reaching back to hold Yifan there, "fuck, right there," where the head of his dick is rubbing against his prostate just right. When he grinds down at that angle every nerve on his body is set ablaze and before he can fully process the sensation, he's coming over Yifan's fingers embarrassingly fast. He barely registers it at all when Yifan scoops his legs from under him and flips him over. He's too blissful and hot, unconsciously rolling into the shallow sliding in and out he's being treated to as he shudders through his orgasm. There's semen sticking his back to the leather couch now, but he doesn't mind; it's his and at least it wasn't on his damn shirt.

"You know, your _Daddy_ was right," Yifan chuckles softly above him, "you are pretty as hell when you cum."

Now that he's a little more lucid, Sehun finally notices the sarcastic tone he's used twice now when repeating the word 'Daddy,' as if he's trying to keep himself from laughing. It's obviously he's never heard his old friend addressed that way, so he's having trouble picturing him in that position, with people subordinate to his command. Sehun understands why that could be funny, so he doesn't argue with him. He also doesn't argue when Yifan yanks him up and pushes his head into his lap, encouraging him to suck him to completion. Sehun's not sure if he wants him to swallow or not since the usual “small talk” he’s used to was completely bypassed; luckily, he's given that answer very quickly – right across lips and chin.

Sehun watches silently as Yifan buttons his blazer and pants back up, somewhat posing across the couch as if he's waiting to be immortalized on canvas. Yifan takes his wallet out of his back pocket once he's slicked his hair back into place and sorts through a couple dozen hundred bills before placing them on top of the table next to the couch.

"Thank you," Sehun says, tugging his arm and effortlessly winning a goodbye kiss with just a glance at the man's lips. "We should do this again soon."

"Oh, you can count on that." He bends down to kiss Sehun again, hand gripping his chin and tongue running over his bottom lip when they part. "Stay out of trouble until then."

"Yes sir," he responds, sweet and obedient. "I promise I will."

He smiles and waves as he leaves, as if he was just innocently saying goodbye to a buddy he hasn't seen in a while after making flimsy plans to catch up. It's endearingly dorky, and Sehun can't get the gesture out of his head as he pulls on his pants and strides over to the sinks.

Kyungsoo suddenly appears in the stall behind him after he finishes wiping his face clean and begins unceremoniously washing his plug under the faucet. He's grinning down at the camera in his hand, carefully rewatching the footage he just shot from his perfect vantage point. Sehun rolls his eyes when he turns up the volume. The squeaking of the couch and his moans begin bouncing off the walls and Sehun can't help but be embarrassed hearing himself whining and groaning the way he does. After hearing them played back dozens of times, he thought he'd be used to his own moans by now.

"Turn that off before someone hears it."

"That's a joke, right? You were so fucking loud I'm pretty sure the entire bar could hear you." Kyungsoo turns the volume back down anyway, and begins skipping though by the minutes, going through the check list of all he was instructed to capture on film. "Man, I can't wait to show this to," he stifles a laugh, sharing in Yifan's previous humor, " _Daddy_."

Sehun instantly reaches back for the camera when he says that, obviously offended, but he tries to laugh if off anyway. "Shut up." It was bad enough they needed the footage to be archived for security, but he really didn't want to hear himself saying that again. Hopefully he can convince Baekhyun to cut out that part before handing it over.

"Maybe a certain someone else should see this, too..."

Sehun actually turns towards him this time, mouth hanging open in horror. "Kyungsoo, that's not funny."

Despite his smaller stature, Kyungsoo plays a good game of keep-away, jerking the camera out of Sehun's reach when he grabs for it again. "Oh, come on, you look great, he'd love this."

"No, he wouldn't, now shut up."

"Okay, at least let me send him the money shots," Kyungsoo chuckles. "He'll probably drown you trying to wash the imaginary load off your fa –”

"Soo, seriously, get the fuck back in there before somebody hears you. My next client is coming soon."

"Well, yeah, he will be, especially with your mouth at the end of his dick."

Sehun takes that as a compliment, but still kicks Kyungsoo as he goes into the stall next to his, second to last. He watches as Kyungsoo's feet disappear from the bottom of the plastic wall between them and after the beep indicating he's started recording, Sehun doesn't hear a single sound. He quickly counts the money Yifan left (of course he already knew his rates, but it still slightly disturbs Sehun that they didn't have to specify any prices beforehand), folds it into Kenneth Hosier's wallet and stuff it back into his pocket. Waiting would be the most relaxing part of his job if staying still longer than ten minutes didn't bring attention to his ailing body.

The night has been long but it's nearly over, which was barely a relief to Sehun. Just the physical labor of his two jobs is enough to keep him exhausted; don't even get him started on the emotional labor. Nevertheless, when given the chance to relax he still takes every chance he gets to engage in the things that make him so tired in the first place. As strange as it seems, his limbs never feel as heavy when he’s working. This is another way in which the effortlessness of his life is a curse, because he's always being given opportunities to exhaust himself he can’t refuse. He’ll take them as they come, and he’ll take them happily.

The effortlessness of his life is also a blessing, though. As easily as he can garner people's attention, he can satisfy their desires of him just as easily. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's doing anything worthy of chatter, and yet people never seem to shut up about him. Even when he's there, gently cradled in their arms as he dances with them or on his knees practically worshipping their genitals, they're always singing his praises. So many of them say he was made for what he does and he's thankful that they feel that way. It makes it easier for them to believe him when he says these things come easy to him. Knowing he can coax people to near orgasm with just a certain cock of his eyebrow or swivel of his hips makes him feel unnaturally powerful and effortlessly enticing. Perhaps if he didn't use his 'powers' for selfish validation, he wouldn't see them as a blessing as often. He supposes it would tire the average person, being constantly desired and fawned over. Perhaps he should be tired of it, but he never is.

So, he takes a breath and waits, taps his fingers against the brick wall behind him and hopes his next client keeps him busy long enough to ignore the weakness in his bones.

Besides Joseph fucking him into the wall so slowly that it bordered on maddening, Sehun's last three clients of the night were all regular locals who got their usual – quick and sloppy blowjobs before running back to their waiting wives. The first was a stocky, young bodybuilder who always liked to share his winnings with Sehun in return for biting his shapely thighs and kissing him deeply after they’re done. The second was a little more out of shape, but just as enthusiastic. He never looks Sehun in the eye, though, like he’s trying his best to somehow pretend he’s not there. The one time he did peer down at him through his short, messy bangs he actually shed a tear that landed on the other’s forehead. Sehun avoided him for a month after that incident in favor of getting closer to his wife. He couldn’t tell if the man was crying in shame or ecstasy, but it wasn’t like he was given time to ask; he was out of the stall (and maybe even out of the building) before his pants were even zipped.

Sehun only had trouble with the last one because he couldn't stop giggling at the fact that he was Michaela's husband. He covers up his laughter by pretending to choke on his modest size while he was fucking his face. The man's drunken state made it easier for him to buy it, Sehun guesses, because he seems extremely chatty about how big he is tonight. As he's faking having a gag reflex, Sehun wonders if Michaela also considers this man, her literal fucking husband, "pretty straight." _Probably, since she married him._ Would she still consider him "pretty straight" if she knew he liked paying men to suck his dick? _Maybe_. Hearing the same talk about Sehun didn't change her mind about him. Would she need to see him gleefully shoving his dick down Sehun's throat for her to believe that men attracted to her might also be attracted to other men? _Who knows?_ he asks himself with an internal cackle. Michaela seems like the type of person who thinks having enough straight sex can cure queerness, so probably not. She'd probably just blame the both of them for not fucking _her_ enough to keep the gay at bay.

When he looks up at the man, eyes closed tight and mouth slack, he can see the lens of Kyungsoo's camera pointed down directly above them and he suddenly has to "choke" again. It's a wonder that sneaky little fuck never gets caught doing anything.

He doesn't say it out loud, but he's a little disappointed that Quincy hadn’t showed up at his stall. Perhaps it was cocky of Sehun to just assume every man in the room wants him the same way every woman on the dance floor does. He tries his best to nonchalantly mention him to Joseph, but he doesn’t offer up much information on the stranger. He doesn’t give their tech wiz much of a picture – average height, middle aged, possibly natural tan, slightly freckled face and auburn dye job – but he still sends the text containing the description and name with his fingers crossed. They’ve hit targets with less, so it’s worth a shot. He’ll be staying at the Plaza at least another week, according to Joseph, so he’s got time to get to know him.

 

 

 

 

Outside of KoKo Billiards, Jongdae is still arguing with Samwell, but this time it's over his parking skills. Kyungsoo and Sehun are coming out of the front door just in time to see Sam somewhat giving up and pretending to kick the front bumper of the convertible away from the fire hydrant. Jongdae squeals childishly about treating _Dorothy_ like a lady and Jongin mirrors his concern. Albeit sarcastically, he asks Sam how he would feel if a man raised a foot to the woman he loves, pointedly calling the vehicle the only _woman_ Jongdae respects. On the opposite side of the Oldsmobile, Chanyeol is shouting at some tourists across the street from the backseat. Apparently, he wants to be the next person to get knocked out by a jealous man tonight.

"You sure you don't need a ride, ladies?”

"Yes, we're fine!" one of the bikini clad women replies while holding back the man by her side. "Thank you!"

"Yeah, fuck off, you little punk, before I come over there and break you in half!"

"Wait a minute, wait! What the fuck did he just say to you?" Jongdae interjects from the driver’s seat, raising a hand to Samwell so he can fully redirect his anger.

“I think he might have just threatened me,” Chanyeol chuckles, scratching his ear, “I don’t know, I must be hearing things.”

“You heard me, you dumbo eared fuck!”

“Wow, I must be hearing things, too, Yeol,” Jongdae asserts, standing up to perch himself up on top of the convertible’s windshield. “It sure does sound like he’s threatening you!”

“Oh, come on, Charlie, leave those kids alone! They’re just trying to be nice,” another one of the women says, striking the man in the side with her tote bag and pushing passed him on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, Charlieee,” Jongin repeats nasally from the reclined passenger seat, mocking the woman’s accent, “we’re just trying to be nice!”

The other two women have continued walking ahead but the last was still trying to stop the man from crossing the street. Sehun realized now that this kind of confrontation is actually a lot more entertaining when he’s not involved, watching idly beside the car while Kyungsoo’s wastes no time pushing Jongin’s seat and climbing into the back with Chanyeol.

“Now, Charles, buddy, you’re gonna have to humor me and repeat what you said to my friend here, because the two of us don’t hear too good.” Jongdae has to shout because the woman has been successful in hurrying the man along quickly. She starts yanking him harder because she sees what’s in Jongdae’s hand before anyone else.

“Come on, Charlie, lets go!” she shrieks, but he’s ignoring her, still attempting to approach the car across the busy road. He’s actually holding up traffic in the left lane now, adding car horns to the range of commotion.

“No, no, let him come a little closer,” Jongdae says, now waving him forward. “You’re gonna come over here and do what, exactly?”

The man doesn’t stop moving until he clearly sees Jongdae isn’t holding his other hand up to his ear. He’s holding a gun.

A Walther P38 pistol to be exact. It’s the one Jongdae always carries, Sehun recognizes the gleam of the slender barrel he’s tapping against his ear, then extending forward to wave in the same come-hither motion.

Obviously, the couple have begun booking it in the other direction, the man mumbling something about not wanting any trouble. Sehun can barely hear him over Samwell trying to scream over Jongdae and Jongin’s obnoxious, foghorn cackling.

“Oh, come on, what’s wrong?” Chanyeol laughs, actually hopping out of the backseat to lean against the car, pulling his ears outward. “You said you were gonna come break me in half, right? Aren’t you gonna come do it?”

“You gotta be a man of your word, Charlieee!” Jongdae chuckles, watching the group stumble quickly into the nearest open door on the street. He’s tussling his pale blonde locks with the bottom of the grip as he scratches his head, turning back towards the rest of the guys. “I guess you were hearing things, Yeol,” he smirks.

Chanyeol smiles back and hops back into the car easily. “Haha, I guess so. Can’t even be nice to people nowadays, geez.”

Sehun mirrors his actions when Samwell pushes him forward, balancing on Jongin’s shoulder instead of the headrest to leap onto the back seat. Once he’s plopped down next to Kyungsoo, everyone’s chuckles cease due to individual eye contact with Samwell.

“Jongdae, what did I JUST fucking tell you a few hours ago?” Samwell asks, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“To never pull my damn gun out in your club ever again,” Jongdae drags, imitating Samwell’s voice. “You never said anything about outside your club, though,” he concludes, spinning his pistol before tucking it back into his waistband.

Jongin almost cracks into laughter again but Samwell smacks the side of head when he grins. “Ow! What I do?”

“Be an idiot, as always. Now get out of her before one of those Yanks calls the fucking cops,” Samwell shouts, pointing down the road as if it would immediately make the car start moving. He sounds almost maternal and he knows it, knowing the group would be more intimidated by his parental tone than his authoritative one. “Go home, you little assholes,” he adds, tousling his salt & pepper hair. God forbid he sound too protective of his bar’s favorite pests.

“We love you too, Uncle Sammy,” Sehun grumbles as he slouches back in the seat. Jongdae doesn’t drive off quick enough for him to avoid getting a whack identical to Jongin’s.

 

 

 

 

Sehun doesn’t even have time to step through the door before he hears someone call his name sternly though the echoes of the hallways. The others don’t even try to enter before him, just move to either side of the doorway to let him through. Jongin says something quietly to Chanyeol as Sehun passes them, something along the lines of “Daddy’s mad at you,” in a sing-song tone. Sehun catches it but doesn’t react with much more than scrunching his nose, though he makes a mental note to do bodily harm to Kyungsoo promptly ( _would it kill that little demon to keep something to himself?!_ ). Baekhyun is sprawled out on the couch with the hood of his pullover covering his face and doesn’t even have to look to know Sehun is about to ask him where to go. He points towards the kitchen, meaning the voice came from the next room over. One of the double doors on the far side of the kitchen is cracked open already, but Sehun still knocks, just to be sure.

“Just come in, Sehun.”

He only opens the door wide enough to slip in between and closes it behind him, leaving his instigative brothers behind as they break into a chorus of OOOs; he’ll let them have their childish reactions, it’s not like he doesn’t do the same when he’s not the one of the chopping block.

The study before him is large for a home office; shelves full of dusty books and picture frames guide the carpeted path before him to a two-chair sitting area in the right corner. A wide, wooden desk nearly traps the unexpectedly calm man behind it in the corner. Bright lights illuminate the computer and documents laying in front of him, despite the room already being adequately lit. He doesn’t look up at Sehun when he enters. His shoulders are tense as he reads over the paper in his hand, _probably for the fifth or sixth time_ , Sehun thinks, knowing how meticulously he reviews so many things within a day. The phone console next to him is blinking rapidly, indicating several calls put on hold. Sehun suddenly feels a bit more uneasy. If whatever he was about to say to him couldn’t be heard by one of his constituents, he must really be in trouble. He usually gets whatever scolding he wants to do out of the way with the phone tucked under his chin, then continues on with his work. Tonight was a rare change of routine.

Though he knows he’s wrong to do so, Sehun moves to sit in the chair farthest from the desk. He had barely bent his knees before being startled up right. The man behind the desk sighs out Sehun’s name, like it’s a chore, like he’s already tired of a conversation they haven’t begun to have.

“Come here,” he demands.

Sehun approaches the side of the desk cautiously, hands cupped behind his back and eyes shifting. He doesn’t want to but when the man finally looks up at him, he drops his head. Was it in submission? In shame? He’s not really sure which.

“Jesus, fuck…look at your face, Sehun! What the hell?”

The exclamation hurts his feelings for some reason, as if he’s hearing it for the first time tonight. He had looked at his face, multiple times. He practically watched the bruises darken and his lip swell, deflate, and blister all in real time. He knows it’s not a pretty sight, but for the first time tonight he actually felt he looked…bad. “I’m sorry, Junmyeon.” It rushes out of his mouth so quickly that it makes him flinch, a reflex of guilt he knows he shouldn’t be feeling. “But it wasn’t what you think –”

“You don’t know what I think it was.” His face is stoic, unreadable, but his furrowed brow is an unmistakable mark of seriousness. Sehun hates when he looks at him like that. “And what am I supposed to think, knowing how you two are? You’re always up to _something_.”

Sehun knows exactly what _something_ he’s referring to. It’s an old rouse he and Kyungsoo were infamous for. Sehun, forever alluring and attention-grabbing, would dance a little too closely and a little too fondly with women who were clearly spoken for. Nine times out of ten it would lure their bored male companions into confrontation while Kyungsoo discreetly collected whatever he could from their abandoned purses  & wallets. Sehun was always jealous of Kyungsoo expert pickpocketing. Sometimes he’d be so bold as to pick straight from their pockets as all attention in the room was directed to whatever ruckus Sehun caused.

“We weren’t up to anything, I swear! I didn’t even know the dude would show up.”

Junmyeon scoffs, dramatically dropping the stack of papers in his hands on the desk and turning more towards him. “Empty your pockets, Sehun,” he commands.

Sehun gulps. The bulge of his attacker’s wallet weighs heavier in his jacket pocket as he shuffles around it, fishing out his own wallet instead. He places it on the corner of the desk alongside his cellphone and the wrinkled bills from his jean pockets. A skeptical look urges him to produce a couple bottle caps, random chips that were slipped to him throughout the night, a pack of matches, and his lucky rabbit’s foot. The small bag of rainbow colored tabs he pulled from his sock weren’t necessarily in the search permit, but he still offers them. Mostly in an effort to distract the other, maybe prompt a different line of questioning since he’s not even supposed to be carrying them.

The ill-influenced transparency doesn’t work.

“Sehun,” Junmyeon repeats with narrowed eyes.

He knows he doesn’t have anything to be guilty about. Kyungsoo did not grant him any say in its obtaining, but that doesn’t make it any less damning to produce the man’s wallet from his hidden jacket pocket. “I – I didn’t tell him to,” Sehun stutters out as the other eyes the brown leather placed before him.

“I know you didn’t,” he sighs again, pushing the wallet and folded wads of money away from the corner of the desk. “Sam told me everything, relax already.” His shoulders are less tense as the tight line of his lips curve into a slightly amused smile.

“Oh…” It takes Sehun a few seconds to realize he’s trying to lighten the mood. He’s still uneasy as he returns the smile, though; he keeps his hands clasped behind his back just in case the mood swings for the worse. No matter how calm he may come off, something about the older man always made Sehun feel small, naïve, and witless – Junmyeon was very good at reducing him to a child, even when he’s not trying to. “So... you’re not mad at me?”

“No,” he chuckles, forever amused by Sehun’s juvenile demeanor. “God, no. I just want you to be more careful…who knows what that guy could have done to you?” He reaches out to pull Sehun closer, fingers cupped gently around his face when he steps towards, further behind the desk. “Poor thing,” he coos, pinching the cheek that isn’t bruised.

Sehun makes a small effort to pull the hand away, so of course it doesn’t move at all. He leans into the touch instead, closing his eyes and yawning as Junmyeon inspects the rest of his injuries with maternal grace. “It’s not that bad,” he huffs.

“Like hell, it isn’t.”

Junmyeon continues guiding his face back & forth, left & right, cards fingers through his hair to check his scalp and even pokes at the marks on his neck and hips he knows fully well aren’t from any fight. Sehun hasn’t had to endure one of his amateur checkups in a while, so he lets himself enjoy it. Junmyeon is soft with him and it’s easy enough to settle in his lap while he mentally catalogs each of his bruises and cuts.

He finds himself relaxed enough by the end of the petting that he’s feeling merciful when Junmyeon mumbles about having his attacker taken care of.

“It’s okay, Junmyeon,” he says softly while stroking his arm. “We don’t have to fuck things up even more.”

“I said it’s going to be handled and that’s that.”

“But, I’m fine, I really am! It’s just a couple –”

“For fucks sake, Sehun, don’t start with this shit again.”

There’s no arguing with Junmyeon over things like this. Sehun knows that, but that never stops him from trying. The others chalk it up as him being too sensitive since being too young is cancelled out by attitudes of the members around his age. One of them getting hurt is a daily occurrence and things are always left to be dealt with afterwards. He knows very well, especially in rare instances when they’re not the aggressors, the instigators, or the provocateurs. It’s very hard to change Junmyeon’s mind when it comes to things like this.

But it’s not that he’s sensitive, he swears he’s not. He may find it jarring how effortlessly they welcomes others into their unique path of consequence day in and day out, but that doesn’t make him _sensitive_. He just feels as though their retaliations are a bit…disproportionate. They all have much shorter tempers, itchier trigger fingers, and are far more desensitized than he is. He’d say they’re also keener to petty revenge in all it’s forms, but he can’t honestly leave himself out of that category (he blames the same reasoning for why he doesn’t consider maturity to be the cause of his haphazard hospitality, either). Still, he does his best to try and sweet-talk in his usual fashion, even when he knows peaceful resolutions will most likely be shot down. Maybe he could have protested harder, but it is a lot harder to defend someone after having them enthusiastically try to crack your skull over a fucking slow dance.

“You know this is unacceptable, no one is allowed to touch you like this and get away with it. If word gets around that we didn’t handle this who know what could happen to you? Or Jongin? Or any of us, honestly?”

Sehun hangs his head, sliding a little off Junmyeon’s lap to bury his face in the other’s neck.

Though Junmyeon knows the action is meant to make him feel less like scolding him, he continues. “This isn’t just about you and what you want, Sehun. It’s about protecting our family. I don’t like it anymore than you do but we do what we have to.”

 He’s heard this speech a million times and yet it still affects him, still makes him feel remorseful for trying to persuade them to consider other options. He honestly fears for the day it doesn’t sway him; the day his compassion outweighs the logical and will bite him in the ass, possibly endangering everyone he cares about. It may not be the _right_ thing, but it’s the right thing for them. Their family will always come first, before any of them, and especially before his feelings.

 “If you see him again, you let us take care of it. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, I got it,” he sighs, eyes trained down as he twiddles his thumbs in his lap.

Junmyeon grips his chin, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that it commands eye contact. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, sir,” he says in a more disciplined matter. “I understand.” And he does. He truly does. Still, he’s hoping the next time he sees Kenneth, if he ever does, that it’s from a distance, and a longways off from now. He may have just attempted to plead for the guy’s safety, but another unexpected attack might knock the sympathy right out him. If it comes to that, he may get in a few hits himself. Once he gets up off the ground, that is. “I will, Junmyeon.”

“Good.” He combs his fingers through Sehun’s choppy orange spikes once more before scooting his chair back, allowing him room to leave. “You can go now.” He picks up the phone as soon as Sehun rises, focusing back down at the papers in front of him while Sehun gathers his things off the corner of his desk. Junmyeon doesn’t even look up from number he’s dialing into the key pad when he swats Sehun’s hand away from the plastic bag of pills he tries to silently slide away from the separate pile of the things he clearly wouldn’t be allowed to have back.

He doesn’t get scolded for having them like he expects, though, Junmyeon just leaves it at a stern, silent **_no_** and spares him another lecture. It’s fine, he decides; he could just pout his way into getting more from Chanyeol later.

As he begins walking away from the desk, he stops in front of one of the shelves, glancing up at a certain photograph that always catches him as he leaves Junmyeon’s study. The eyes in the portrait glare back at him, clear and shining through the frame, as if they’re actually standing before him. For the second time tonight, he feels guilt pooling in his gut as the person in the photo continued to stare at him, imagined accusations behind stagnant pupils.

“Junmyeon?” he calls, unable to look away from the picture.

“Yes, Sehun?”

“Did you…” his voice catches in his throat, the answer to his question already looming in the realization that he hasn’t seen the person in the portrait at all tonight. “Did you tell him?”

The way Junmyeon pauses is evident even in his blurred peripheral vision. “You know I had to.”

“Did he seem…is he mad?” Sehun rephrases, already knowing the answer to this question as well.

“A little…but only because he warned you about that woman.”

Sehun opens his mouth again, about to ask another stupid question he already knows the stupid answer to, so Junmyeon saves him the trouble.

“He’s been waiting,” he says lowly, phone tucked under his chin and receiver covered.

“How long?” Sehun chooses to ask instead, attempting to buy himself a few more seconds with the frozen, slightly less intimidating version of them in the photo before having to face their gaze in person. He already knows where to find them; he won’t even have to look.

 “A while.”

Sehun drags his feet as he approaches the door, knowing this ever-so-patient person has probably grown not-so-patient while waiting for him, and feels justified in his hesitation. Hopefully he’s mellowed out after having a few hours to himself. Maybe he’s calmer now, but it’s alarming that Junmyeon could even tell the man was angry in the first place. He’s not unexpressive in the least, just better at suppressing his emotions than most. It takes a lot for him to not only be upset, but _visibly_ upset.

Sehun puts him through a lot.

He stands with his hand on the doorknob, the other hand squeezing the rabbit’s foot keychain in his jacket pocket. Sehun took time to contemplate everyone else’s reactions except his, and that’s very unlike him. The scuffle has rocked his brain a little more than he realized.

 Junmyeon didn’t close his address book very hard at all, but the sound still vibrated off the walls loud enough to startle Sehun. He jumps slightly, slowly turning the knob in a final attempt of performative procrastination. He knows as soon as he closes the door behind him he’ll rush back out the door, ignoring the calls of his name and inevitable teasing as he rushes up the cold, metal stairway; he knows his feet won’t allow him to move at any other pace.

“I wouldn’t keep him waiting any longer if I were you.”

It’s not something he has to be told twice.

No one in the world moves Oh Sehun as quickly, and nobody has to tell him that for him to know it to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear no other update will take as long as this one did, thank you all for hanging in there with me. ;~;


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